Front Matter - Part 07

In front of the double doors of the hospital entrance that was chained with barbed wire, stood a dirty truck. The guard, with his neck wrapped in the wide collar of his sheep-leather jacket, looked through the tinted glass of the kiosk, came out and in a mild tone of voice asked: “Documents!” The driver of the truck handed the guard a card with a number written on it – it was the hospital cipher. The guard took the card and returned to the kiosk. A private conversation took place over the telephone. The driver heard the word “good” and was confident that he had permission to enter. He started the engine. The guard returned, gave back the card and asked: “And they,” with his chin pointing at the two men who sat beside him, “who are they?” “They are doctors,” replied the driver. “What?” asked the guard. “They are doctors,” the driver repeated. The guard stared at their tired faces and bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep. “Hello, how are you?” the guard greeted the passengers but did not get a reply. “Are they mute?” he asked. “No. They don’t speak Macedonian. They are Greeks,” said the driver. “What the devil are they doing here?” inquired the guard. “They came here to examine the wounded,” replied the driver. “Wait!” said the guard and went back to the kiosk. He then picked up the telephone, said something and quickly returned. He then quickly opened the door and yelled out, “Enter!” In front of the main entrance of the hospital there were a number of stretchers lined up and orderlies were standing beside them. They were offloading wounded from the trucks and taking them to the receiving rooms. The newly arrived doctors were sent to the washrooms to clean up. When they were ready, one of the nurses took them to the administrator’s office to meet with the hospital administrator. “Please sit down. The administrator is doing his morning rounds. We have informed him of your arrival,” said the nurse. “We are sorry but we don’t speak Serbian,” said the man closest to the nurse. The nurse did not reply. “Do you speak English?” asked the same man. “No, no I don’t speak…” replied the nurse. “Parlez vous Francais?” asked the same man. “No, I don’t parlez vous…” replied the nurse. “Ponjmaish po Ruski?” the same man asked again. “No. I only speak Macedonian,” replied the nurse in Macedonian. “What did she say?” asked the other man in Greek. “From what I understood she said she speaks Macedonian…” said the man closest to her. “So she understood you. Then ask her in Russian if she can serve us some tea?” remarked the other man. “Сестра, пожалуйста, можете нас угостить чаем?” (Nurse, please, can you serve us some tea?) asked the man closest to her. “You want tea? With pleasure. What kind of tea?” asked the nurse. “What did she say?” asked the other man. “She said with pleasure and asked what kind of tea?” replied the man closest to her. “But of course the kind that Stalin drinks,” said the second man. “What? Stalin?” interrupted the nurse “You like him?! There is no Stalin here! Down with Stalin!” The nurse turned red in the face and walked away angry. The two men were surprised at the nurse’s reaction. The one that spoke Russian to her immediately understood what the problem was and quickly went after the nurse to apologize. “Простите, сестра. Не уходите, подождите, подождите пожалуйста. Нам нужен…” (Sorry, nurse. Do not go, wait, wait please. We need…) said the man that was closest to her. “The hell with him…” replied the nurse and wanted to say something else but at that very moment the hospital administrator arrived. “What is it nurse? I can hear yelling from all the way there,” said the administrator to the nurse and then turned to greet the guests: “Здравствуйте товарищи. Добро пожелавали!” (Greetings comrades. Welcome please!) The administrator greeted the men in Russian and with a wide sweep of his hand asked them to sit. Then, pointing at the nurse with his head, inquired: “В чём дело, о чём шла ссора?” (What is it, what was all that yelling?)

-Да нет, доктор. Она не ссорилась… Всё в порядке…( No, doctor. She was not yelling… everything is okay…) The administrator smiled and then turned to the nurse, who stood quietly by the door, and said: “Nurse please bring us some of the hot stuff from your grandfather’s stash to warm our guests. Please hurry.” “And tea?” asked the nurse in a shaky voice. “Товарищи, чай пить будете?” (Comrades, will you have some tea?) Inquired the administrator. “С удовольствием!” (With pleasure!) answered the men, breaking into loud laughter. After they explained what the laughter was all about, the administrator raised his eyebrows slightly, picked up the glass of hot rakia (homemade alcoholic beverage), took a deep breath and said: “Too bad the times are clouded… Cheers…” “Is igia” (cheers) replied the guests in Greek. A moment of silence followed and afterwards the discussions continued in Russian. The administrator asked: “I have heard you had some difficult days…” “It has been difficult. We have had heavy losses, especially after the unsuccessful battle for Voden and S’botsko,” replied one of the men. “Yes. Almost all the wounded were brought here from there, we have them all here,” said the administrator. “Were they heavily injured?” Inquired one of the men. “Yes. Very much so. Most are wounds to the chest, belly and leg areas from infantry weapons… And that from close proximity,” replied the administrator. “How many wounded do you have now?” inquired one of the men. “We have two-hundred and sixty all together. Some, tomorrow or the day after, will be transferred to Belgrade. We don’t do major surgery here,” replied the administrator. “Doctor, tell me, please, how many have you admitted?” asked one of the men. “Are you asking me how many have we have admitted all together?” the administrator asked curiously. “Yes,” said the man. The administrator opened a drawer and took out a thick book, leafed through several pages and said: “In total so far we have admitted approximately six thousand.” “How many died?” inquired the man. “Many. About ten to fifteen percent. Unfortunately many of the wounded arrived here late, sometimes too late to help them. We had patients here who were admitted ten or even twenty days after they were wounded. Too often the wounds were infected and gangrene had already set in. A lot of the first aid field medics are inexperienced and don’t know how to deal with complicated wounds… We are making every effort however to train our people, even some of the wounded girls here, to professionally assist with proper medical care. They learn quickly but…” replied the administrator as he was interrupted by one of the men who said: “Yes, but instead of a medical bag, they give them a machine gun…” There was silence. The administrator broke the silence when he said “How about one more?” “There is no problem, as long as it’s just one more. But doctor, let us get back to the reason for us being here,” replied one of the men. “It’s okay with me. Go ahead do your duty. When would you like to start?” asked the administrator. “We should rest a little today and we will begin tomorrow morning after your rounds,” replied the man. The next day. “Given name, last name, date of birth, rank and unit?” is the order of questions. “Wounded – when and how?” “Strip… Kneel down! Repeat three times!” “You are free to go!” “Next!” “Close your eyes! Touch your nose with your finger!” “You are free to go!” “Next!” “Run to the door and back!” “You are free to go!” “Next!” “Lie down. Face down! Turn three times!” “You are free to go!” “Next!” “Kneel down! Take a step forward with your left leg! Now with your right leg!” “You are free to go!” “Next!” “Bend forward! Hands in front of you! Raise your right arm! Now your left!” “You are free to go!” “Next!” “Not well! Return to your bed!” “Are there any more?” “Yes there are.” Let them in, but one by one!” The examinations took until late afternoon. The next day the doctors came back ordering that washed and mended uniforms be given to the patients found fit.

Then they gave each a backpack of dry rations to last two days. After saying their goodbyes the patients climbed aboard the five old “Jemps” (military trucks) parked inside the hospital yard. Nurse Sevda came out and went over to Tsilka and Mita, hugged and kissed them both on the cheeks and on the eyes, took out two buns of bread made from rye from her apron and gave them to the ladies, “For later, so that you have something to eat, and… dears, please be careful… ladies… take care of yourselves…” said Sevda. At nightfall the trucks left the hospital. The road to Mount Babuna was snowed in. After taking a sharp turn the first vehicle ran into a deep drift of snow causing the “Jemps” (military truck) to stall. The driver got off and after loudly cursing and spitting, yelled out: “Get off the truck and start clearing the snow!” There was only one shovel. “Why are you standing there! Start clearing the snow with your hands, with your mouth if you have to! Quickly, if you don’t want to spend the night here,” yelled the driver at the thirty people in his truck as if it was their fault that the truck was stuck in the snow. By the light of the truck’s high beams, the passengers used their hands and feet to clear and level the snow. “Good! Now get back on the truck!” the driver called out in a hoarse voice. The truck’s engine roared and the truck shook as it slowly freed itself from the snowdrift and continued the uphill climb. Then just as it passed over Mount Babuna its passengers could see the city lights of Prilep. Downhill the driver kept his foot on the brake. On the left, high above the mountain, a full moon could be seen. There was a bluish reflection on the cobblestone road, covered in a thick layer of snow, compressed and beaten down by truck tires. Before the city entrance there was a man holding a machine gun in his hands. Beside him there was a well-lit battery powered lamp flashing the words “stop”! “Militia! Documents!” said the armed man. The militia man recognized the code on the documents. They were expected. He had orders to let them through without inspection. He knew where they were going and what and who they were carrying in the trucks. “Have a nice trip and good luck…” said the armed man and waved as he sood still. “Thank you,” replied the driver. At dawn, before entering Bitola, they were stopped by a military patrol. An officer came out of the jeep and, after looking at the documents, told the driver: “You will follow us through the city to the other side with lights off.” They drove through the quiet city streets at a slow speed with lights off. At the city limits the jeep turned on its high beams and sped up. Prior to arriving at the village Kazhani, the jeep turned left and stopped in a designated grove. The snow around the grove was brushed off by the strong and cold wind. The same officer got off the jeep and, covering his face with his wide jacket collar, gathered all the truck drivers together. Carefully, slowly and in military style, in a tone as if every word counted, he informed them: “You will remain here the entire day. You are only allowed to exit the trucks one by one and only as needed. You are forbidden to light a fire. We will bring you food during the day.” The officer saluted, climbed back onto his jeep and left for Bitola. Soon the jeep disappeared down the snow covered road. Snow fell all that day. Blown wildly from the fields by strong winds the snow was twisted around and deposited in waves of drifts. The sky was lost in the dark snow clouds. People, in groups of five or six, regularly got off the trucks and went to warm up in a nearby cabin. There they thawed out their frozen hands and feet and with their warm palms rubbed their cold faces, noses and pale ears. After spending a few minutes in the warm cabin they then ran back under the truck tarpaulins while others quickly took their place. They spent their entire day doing this. Then under the cover of darkness the trucks rolled out again, maneuvering with difficulty on the uphill, snow covered road on their way to Gjavoto.

Occasionally they stopped because the tires were stuck, spinning wildly on the slippery ice. Everyone was ordered off the truck to push and as the truck tires regained traction they had to run to catch up. Out of breath and sweating, they leapt under the tarpaulin and began to freeze all over again. They felt cold chills run through their faces, shivers up their backs and the sensation of crawling ants all over their hands and feet. The Resen flatland welcomed them with a clear sky and a full moon. In every village they passed, hordes of unleashed dogs ran after the trucks, on the left and on the right, barking at them and escorting them out of the village. And then those villagers already awake knew what kind of trucks were passing, where they were going and who and what they were carrying. Before midnight the trucks stopped in front of the Markova Noga barracks but only for the border barricade to be raised. After crossing the border, everyone got off the trucks. They got into formation in a column and left in the dark. They marched to Medovo where they spent the night in designated village houses. There they slept for the remainder of the night and were awakened at early dawn the next day. They did not take them to the local squads. From them and others who arrived later from the hospitals in Albania, they created a new squad, a sabotage squad. For three days they ran, squatted, crawled and hid in the barns and narrow streets in the villages of Medovo and Shtrkovo. They practiced street fighting. After that they gave them German panzers with which they practiced targeting imaginary bunkers. One week of practice was enough to master the skill of street fighting and destroying strong enemy defenses. February 8th arrived with a thick layer of snow. They lined them up early in the morning and, based on the way the speaker’s stage was arranged on the platform on the narrow balcony, they knew that now, today, they would be going on a long march. Their objective would be to attack, occupy and liberate Lerin. “In Lerin,” spoke a woman, “with a strong blow of our army’s mighty and powerful fist we will crush our enemy, liberate the city and declare it the capital of free Greece, a worthy place for us to establish a temporary democratic government. Once this is done, many governments and countries worldwide will immediately recognize us and send us much needed help. Tanks, airplanes, large cannons... Fifteen thousand new fighters will join us in Lerin and in the Lerin plains villages and with them together we will go to Solun. Today on your way to Lerin you will be joined by six thousand fighters from the Democratic Army of Greece. You, the saboteurs, will have the privilege of opening their way to Lerin by destroying the enemy’s bunkers, barbed wire and other obstacles.” Tsilka shook the snow off her shoulders and whispered to Mita: “Do you think it’s her?” pointing with her head to the balcony, “the same woman who gathered us and took us to Gramos by telling us that there we would be washing and mending clothing and knitting sweaters and gloves?” Mita furrowed her eyebrows and took a good look at the balcony. “Yes, it’s her… it’s her, but I don’t seem to remember her name…” “Her name is Vera, is it not?!” asked Tsilka. “Yes, Vera, that is correct… It’s Vera, may God will that her name never be heard again…” cursed Mita. The speeches ended with the shouting of slogans, war songs and the battle cry “To Lerin! To Lerin!” The column then began its march into the deep snow. Wet and exhausted from fatigue, they arrived in Zhelevo in the afternoon. Among them was Vera. “There are many soldiers passing by the road going up to Psoderi,” said Baba (Grandma) Yana, looking through the partly undraped, narrow window. “Who is coming?” asked Dedo (Grandpa) Kiro in a sleepy voice. “No one,” replied Baba Yana in Dedo Kiro’s ear, with a slightly raised voice, “no one is coming, I said going, they are going.” “Okay then… Where are they going?” inquired Dedo Kiro.

“They are going up the road, towards Psoderi,” replied Baba Yana. “Really? In this snow and cold!” remarked Dedo Kiro curiously. Then after coughing and spitting in the fireplace and pulling his feet under the thick woolen blanket, he asked, “Did you say they are going?” “Yes they are going…” replied Baba Yana. “And where are they going in this deep snow and awful cold?” “A couple of days ago someone said they were going to attack Lerin… Lerin, I said Lerin, they are going to attack Lerin!” repeated Baba Yana loudly. “They are going to do what?” inquired Dedo Kiro loudly. “They are going to attack it, attack, I am saying they are going to attack Lerin!” answered Baba Yana in a loud voice. “Oh, well…” mumbled Dedo Kiro. Then, while taking a long puff on his tobacco pipe and swinging his head from side to side with concern, he mumbled, “Oh well, if that’s how it’s going to be then let it be that way.” Sadly Dedo Kiro was deaf from old age. So he asked again “You are saying that in this cold and snow they are going to Lerin? And what are they going to do there? Did they say?” “All week they have been saying that they will free Lerin!” responded Baba Yana. “What will they do?” asked Dedo Kiro again. “They will free it! That’s what they will do!” Baba Yana yelled back. “May God look after them and protect them! Really? In all the snow and cold!?...” remarked Dedo Kiro, crossing himself three times. He then yelled back at Baba Yana saying, “I am not deaf you silly old woman…” Soldiers with mules and horses loaded with ammunition passed through Zhelevo all night long, singing and cheering with excitement. Behind them, 380 women followed from the Koreshtanski and Prespa villages - mobilized to carry the wounded. They were the last group in the formation. They spent the 9th of February in Psoderi and in the fields and forests of the surrounding villages. The sky cleared allowing a wide view of Lerin, resting in the palm of the land. Beyond, under a clear sky was Mount Bel Kamen. Frozen snow crackled under their feet and the cold winter wind nipped at their bare faces. “Breakfast! Cheti (detachment) Commanders report to the gathering!” echoed the couriers. All wrapped up in their overcoats, with their heads hunched into their shoulders, they began to line up in front of the cauldron. Stamping their feet together they inhaled the delicious aroma of the boiling, rice-shaped pasta. The server filled their bowls to full portions. They warmed their hands on their hot tin bowls while looking for a place to sit or lean against a tree trunk. From their backpacks they took out dried bread, broke it into small chunks and placed it into the hot soup. Some burned their cold, numbed lips on the hot liquid, feeling its warmth going down their throats and chests. The commanders returned. They conveyed confidence towards the fighters. They said that, according to High Command, the battle for Lerin should only last a couple of hours, but did not say when the attack was going to take place. Confident that they would have a victory they waited, rigid from the cold, for nightfall. Tension grew in anticipation of the arrival of early morning February 10th. But no one believed that they would attack in daylight. They remained huddled together around the trunks of the beech trees and warmed themselves with their breath. Before nightfall the units were ordered to prepare for departure but still there was no order to initiate the attack. Unrest grew during the long wait. Now they were told that the attack was postponed for 24 hours. All preparations, hope, fighting spirit, the assurances of a sure victory, faith in success all began to evaporate in the cold snow. Some said that the units expected to attack the city from the north and from the south had not yet arrived at their designated places. There was much disappointment, mistrust and profanity. Another night passed and then just about an hour before the night was over, the order arrived: “Charge!” The saboteurs first.

With their panzers they needed to open the gates of the city. The city lights were visible. They descended down the snowed in trails, brooks and fields, trotting through the deep snow. Then suddenly the sky was brightly lit by light rockets and long machine bursts thundered terribly… Tsilka and Mita did not take nurse Sevda’s advice to be careful… Much later, a lonely woman all dressed in black, with braided hair, asked: “Dear, my dear did you see my daughter Zoja? They told me they brought her here wounded. Did you see her?” The woman ran from person to person begging for information. She stopped and then started her pursuit again and again asking every person and looking at every stretcher. She stepped off the road, tripped and fell in the snow but never stopped asking: “My daughter’s name is Zoja, have you seen her? She has long braided hair – I sent her with long braided hair when they collected all the young ladies. Zoja has always had long braided hair and even over there I believe she has had her long dark hair braided. I don’t know if last year, up there in Gorusha, when the airplanes dropped burning barrels above the trees and were burning everything to the ground, if Zoja’s braided hair had been burned?” Someone called her: “Come, come help. My shoulder is killing me. Grab here, grab the stretcher.” At dawn they arrived in Zhelevo. There was a truck waiting at the bridge to pick up the wounded. An older man, a doctor, quickly examined each patient and directed the stretcher carriers. Some were loaded on the truck and others were left on the side of the road. The patient on the stretcher carried by the woman in black finally arrived before the doctor. The doctor removed the blanket from the patients face and said: “Not this one, leave her by the side of the road.” At that moment a loud cry of despair was heard. “Zoja my child!” cried the woman in black. Her knees gave way. She knelt down and embraced her daughter, her face touching her daughter’s face and, her body shaking, she gently rocked her lifeless child in her arms… She sobbed quietly and her quiet sob was filled with pain and sorrow and with immeasurable and inconsolable anguish… Heartbroken the woman in black wanted to yell and curse but smothered by her strong emotions all she could do was cry, plead and sob. Here, beside the little brook, under a weeping willow on which broken icicles hung from the lower branches – her life broke, she fell into nothingness, everything that was dear to her was lost… Her life, more than once broken, was now filled with hopelessness, emptiness and despair… Her hopes and wishes were blown away down the brook by the cold and bitter dusk wind, she felt her heart empty and everything living in her was gone, all that she thought about and dreamed up to now had left, it had been torn away from her heart and tossed down into the dark and deep emptiness… Everything she had up to this day was gone… The pale blue full moon shone over Zoja’s peaceful white face. Her mother’s quiet whispers of repeated pleading, crumbled like sounds without echo and with them disintegrated all that meant something, losing themselves in nothingness. The stretchers one after another passed by all day long, women tromping through the mud mixed with snow and her, the woman in black, in whose lap laid Zoja’s peaceful face, sitting all day at the side of the road, with no one asking her name. It was almost sunset before she took to the road, to level ground, where she dug a grave and in it she buried her sadness, despair, darkness, apathy, misery, broken life and all her emptiness – everything that the woman in black carried on her shoulders, in her thoughts, soul and heart was buried. The stretchers one by one kept on passing, women tromping in the mud mixed with snow and blood. Crowds of women carrying stretchers constantly passed by looking at the woman in black kneeling by the road and to them it seemed that she was there only for a moment, trying to catch her breath…

There was a gust of cold wind. It loosened some snow from the tree branches and trunks and then it died down beyond the highway… It died down and went to hell. And what would ease the pain and bring comfort to the untold, burned and immeasurable suffering? What would stop the tears, calm the heart which bleeds and tears and replace the despair with hope when the pain was so great? Quietly, gently, softly she sobs… Her silent voice quivers from the pain and anguish she bears at the bottom of her heart… She is surrounded by the abyss and feels the abyss within her… The frozen snow crunched. The soil groaned under the steps of heavy boots. Two shovels made a pile. One beside the other – five young men and two young women were laid down, resting peacefully, together, at the bottom of the pit. Giorgi and the other five men crossed themselves, spit on their frozen palms, breathing deeply and sweating from the exertion, tossed on them soil mixed with snow. They flattened the soil and compressed it with their dirty boots and then they went to take more bodies from the stretchers that kept coming. They took the bodies off the highway and to the left and right they dug graves and buried them… High up over the snow covered mountain, hung a full moon stretching and elongating the woman in black’s shadow. Constantly passing beside her were more and more stretchers carrying mutilated and moaning young men and women… The trucks found it difficult to turn around in Psoderi. The drivers drove them to the wide area at the top of the village, from where Lerin could be seen, but the open area was dangerous and they fell under enemy fire. Because of that they could not take the wounded any further. The main doctor sat beside one of the drivers, opened his notebook and while writing something down, said: “One thousand-five-hundred wounded.” “How many?” gasped the driver. “Too many,” replied the doctor. “That is how many we admitted… We gave them all first aid. The heavily wounded we dispatched by truck, those for whom we had no space we put on stretchers and sent them down the highway loaded on horses and mules cared for by the women. Hopefully they will survive the cold…” concluded the doctor. The highway from Psoderi to Smrdesh was a chain of trucks, women carrying wounded on stretchers, horses, mules and many, many lightly wounded fighters. In addition to the fighters, a river of men and women, civilians, flowed from the houses in Zhelevo, Oshchima, Trnaa, Rula, Breznitsa, Smrdesh and from the houses in all of Prespa. They were leaving their homes to save themselves, refugees from an imminent attack by enemy forces and aircraft. There was much crying and moaning. There were many loud, strong, angry and rebellious cries of swearing, cursing and anathemas… There was so much crying and wailing taking place it could be heard all the way to the heavens… “Oh God, we lost our children, we lost them all in Lerin!” And in Lerin the victors, the government forces, brought priests and buried each of their fallen with military honours in an individual grave marked with a cross and with the person’s name inscribed on it. But the others; the bandits as they called them, numbering about eight-hundred, them they buried in a mass grave, unmarked. They brought bulldozers to dig a large pit in an abandoned field and buried everyone dead or alive. Lerin eyewitnesses swear that they saw them burying living wounded along with the dead. The Great Lie – Chapter 9